


Fruitful

by Damichez



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Anal Sex, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, F/M, M/M, Name-Calling, Pregnancy Kink, Rimming, Slapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-28 21:15:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20973161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damichez/pseuds/Damichez
Summary: Mary is tired and Joseph's a liar and Robert's quietly complicit.





	Fruitful

Thunder was rolling outside somewhere. 

There were hands on her waist, holding her there. Her skirt was wet, where his cheek was pressed to her thigh. She sat on the living room couch like that, his hands on her waist, and let him cry. Let him tremble. Let him kneel on the floor there like that. 

Raindrops slipped down the window and their shadows cast and rippled on the carpet. She drank darkness from her glass and stared off at the window, at nothing. He trembled underneath her hand, under the glinting gold of her ring in the dim light. She stroked his hair.

“I’m so sorry,” he breathed out. He grabbed the fabric of her shirt in his hands. 

She drank, stared forward at nothing. 

“Forgive me.”

The room flashed white from lightning. She finished her glass and set it down. “Come,” she said. “Get up.”

He got up and stood there pathetically, wiping his face, waiting for her to follow. This large man. This large, beautiful, pathetic man. 

She scooted to the edge of the couch, holding her stomach.

“Let me-”

“Don’t,” she said, and lifted herself, cradling what he’d done to her. Rain pattered against the window.

She walked him upstairs, to one of the kids’ rooms, and eased the door open. She was trying to get him to understand, but he was already walking down the hallway to the master bedroom, his sniffling growing fainter. She watched her children sleep for awhile, leaned against the doorframe, her own eyes heavy with sleep. There were six already, and two more coming, under her gentle hand. And there would be even more soon, and he’ll continue to come home crying, smelling like whisky.

The thing is, the thing she hated the most about it all, was that part of her didn’t mind. She liked being his, because he was so handsome and kind and he showed her off, full of love and appreciation. His hands on her stomach, presenting her, smiling wider than the sun. He was a proud father and prouder husband, loving and tending to the kids, loving and tending to her. Taking the kids to the bay, reteaching himself math and history to help with their homework. Science projects, late-night kitchen nightmares, doctor’s appointments, chauffeuring from after school clubs and friends’ houses. 

She loved when they caught moments alone together, and he’d whisper against her ear, “I want to give you more,” and she’d sigh and grow wet, push her rear to his pelvis, meeting his cock through her skirt, his slacks. 

“I want you big again,” holding her belly. And she’d sigh, “Me too,” even if she knew she didn’t have the energy for more babies. Because he was broad and handsome behind her, his hand under her skirt rubbing her clit in slow, languorous circles, preparing her for what he wanted from her. She knew he felt powerful fucking babies into her, got hard thinking of burdening her with more, and it ruined her. 

At first, he hid it well, masked it behind goodness and virtue.

Fruitlessly, after the first set of twins, she sat him down on their bed and said, “I don’t want any more. I think I’d like to go to a doctor.”

They sat quietly for a minute, listened to the faint sounds of the kids playing outside in the lawn. He and her were still younger then. She saw his eyes soften, felt an understanding from them, albeit tinged with confliction. He held her hand and squeezed. 

“Mary,” he started. He cupped her hand in both of his. He was caring and gentle, like the sunlight streaming through the window onto their backs. 

“I understand what you’re feeling,” he said, “I hear you, but you know it’s against God. We don’t have to try anymore, but we shouldn’t try and prevent it. It isn’t right.” 

He was the worst kind of man because he was good with words, and he talked so kindly like he cared - and part of him did. He meant well and his heart was warmth. But he was also selfish, and craved things, like impregnating. Over and over. Because to spill seed, and multiply, meant goodness.

He wasn’t a person she could easily understand. That conversation in their room took place long before she knew of _ that other thing _. Before she ever thought to imagine him on his stomach, his huge, leaking cock squeezed between himself and the bedsheets, his hole, swollen, his back arched to meet Robert’s lips. By that point, she knew Robert’s hunger, knew how badly he craved for her husband, like she did, knew how he must drink Joseph in on those nights, with Joseph opening like a whore for him like that. By then, she knew how badly Joseph needed to be fucked by another man.

So preventing pregnancy was against God, as was lying with another man. So Joseph preached on Sunday mornings, “Cherish your wife, listen to her and her wishes.” So he preached, “Marriage is between a man and a woman. Succumb not to unnatural desires.”

“But Joseph, I don’t want more babies.” Back in the bedroom now, after the first set of twins, the kids playing around outside. Sunlight on her back and his hands, warming her. It was a half-truth, because by this point she knew how good it felt to grow bigger - her belly, her breasts, her thighs, her rear. Knew how good it felt for him to worship her like that. “You’re so big Mary,” his hands running over her chest, her stomach, her thighs, “You’re beautiful.” And she’d be so wet, so desperate for his cock, bobbing and aching for her between his legs. She knew that, but also knew she couldn’t stand to have more. She was tired already. 

His expression was so conflicted. He was struggling for words. But he loved her. 

“Okay, love,” giving in. He smiled at her, although weakly. 

A tear slipped from her eye, she smiled back. They held one another, and it was settled for a while. 

But half a year later she came home to moans from upstairs. She went up, and heard grunts, and recognized immediately that they were Robert’s. She crept to the bedroom door and just listened. 

There was the constant sound of thrusting, the sound of holes when they’re wet and forced to open. These were constants. Then a slap, her husband’s whines, and Robert’s voice, “Fuck, you’re a slut.” Another slap, Joseph again, Robert again, “Such a bitch for cock.” 

Later, over wine and whisky at the bar, Robert was nonchalant and manspreading across from her. Her tears were long wasted, and she thought to herself that she wanted to see what _ that _ looked like - her beloved crying beneath her best friend. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” The sound of his jacket shifting as he raised his bottle, the liquid swishing inside the glass. She wondered if he knew she knew.

She watched the streetlights change from red to green through the window, but it was the middle of the night and there were no cars on the road. 

“I’m pregnant again,” she said.

Bad pop music was playing faintly. Bad pop music and dim, bourbon-colored lights.

“Shit,” he burped, put the bottle down. “Damn hubby’s a stallion.”

Since the moment she walked into the house earlier and heard the moans, she’d been calculating. Taking everything in slowly. Determining. _ A stallion _. 

A slut.

Bitch.

“I thought you guys were done with that,” he said.

“I think he’s a liar.” This was calculated. 

She saw him shift in her peripheral. 

But she didn’t want to confront Robert yet. “He likes giving me his kids.”

They listened to the murmurs of the bar, the intermittent clinking of glass. 

“Like, he gets off on it,” she said. “Some weird, power-dynamics shit.” 

Quiet again.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

She couldn’t look at him yet. It’d only reveal her real sadness, her confusion. She didn’t _ really _ care that she was pregnant again. 

She sighed deeply and twirled her glass around on the table, “I probably do.”

He downed a swig from his bottle then. “Damn Christiansen’s.”

She finished her wine, saw Rob staring at her as she drank.

“Don’t worry. This is my last one till it comes,” she said.

He shrugged.

“What do you think?” She looked at him now. 

He looked back at her, guarded. “Of?”

“My husband. This,” she patted her stomach. _Do you like the thought of him above someone?_ _Or just under you?_

He turned his eyes away. “I think your husband’s got problems. I’ve always stood by that.”

Her eyes didn’t leave him. 

“He’s on some weird fetishy Christian shit. ‘Be fruitful and multiply,’” he grinned then and returned her gaze.

She grinned back and kicked him under the table. 

“Always honored to’have more of your lovely godchildren, babe. You two are beautiful.”

Of course the “you _ two _” stood out and didn’t leave her.

Even after nine months and the baby was born - Joseph named her Christina - Mary still hadn’t said anything. She’d seen them multiple times by then. She began making a point of telling Joseph she’d be out for the day - out shopping in the next city over. But she’d really just wait in the car a few streets over for an hour, then sneak back inside the house.

Once, the bedroom door was cracked, and she knelt on the floor, peering inside. She now knew what her husband looked like opening for another man. 

She didn’t get off on it, she was just trying to understand. 

It wasn’t that he was unsatisfied, because at night when she was laid out on their bed, breasts full and heavy atop of her, thighs spread and the room smelling like the soaking space between them, he would stand at the edge of the bed with his cock in his hands, stroking, telling her how beautiful she looked. He would lick her pussy so thoroughly for so long, then suck from her breasts until she was squirming and begging - and she wasn’t one to beg. 

And it wasn’t pain, because Rob was overall gentle. He worked Joseph open slowly, carefully, and only then did he get rough, but just so. He slapped and called names, but this was also lovemaking. She could see that. Rob would press his face between Joseph’s cheeks for so long, so sweetly and loving. He would taste and kiss and suck, lick down to Joseph’s balls, bunched against the bed, back up to his taint then back to the spot - working it open. And all the while Joseph would moan and breathe out, reaching back sometimes to brush Rob’s hair, and once, “You’re so good to me. You’re so good,” and Rob would grin against his skin, spreading Joseph apart with his thumbs and kissing there once, then kissing again, and continuing on. 

What she began to understand was that Joseph was selfish. 

They were in the living room, Mary reclining on the couch nursing Christina, Joseph sitting at the coffee table coloring with the kids. It was homely and calm, Oswald playing quietly on the TV in the background, but all she could think about as she looked at her husband there, was something she’d heard weeks ago. Rob’s voice to Joseph: “Your pussy’s so pretty.”

Joseph on the floor with their kids, being sweet and good, scrawling with crayons and letting Crish decorate his face with stickers. Smiling and laughing with them, smiling up at her and their youngest on her chest. Just proudness in his eyes, and she couldn’t hate him. Couldn’t say, _ I’m okay with your sexuality, love. But this doesn’t excuse cheating. It just means there’s more options for you, and that’s okay. I’m okay. But you’re a cheater, Joseph. You’re trying to have everything, but that’s not how this works. You’re selfish, and you’re a liar _. 

And she couldn’t tell him that. 

Some weeks later, in the darkened kitchen one night, everyone in bed but her, she downed a glass of wine and cried. 

“Mary?” 

She wiped her face with her sleeve. She felt his hands place themselves on her shoulders. 

“Mary?” His hands were gently rubbing now. “What’s wrong, love?”

She sniffed, let him rub her for awhile in the darkness. Just the sound of his hands against her shirt, the refrigerator humming. She was exhausted and the massage felt good. She needed time to calculate. 

Out of the night, “You’re a liar Joseph.”

His fingers slowly came to a stop. Just held her there.

“I’ve known for awhile now. I’ve even seen you. Do you know that?”

His hands sort of slipped off of her, but just before they did, she felt how stiff they’d become. 

“I know so much Joseph. It’s all been playing in my mind for months.

I don’t even care so much that it’s Rob. I’ve been pissed that he’s been trying to hide it, but he’s shit at lying. You’re so good, and if I hadn’t seen I would have never known-” 

“Mary-”

“And truly, I don’t care so much. But I’m pregnant again and Christina is still nursing, so if you want to keep growing this family and being here for this family, I need you to either quit it with Rob or stop doing this to me.”

She stood up angrily to pour another glass. Joseph reached for the bottle, “Mary, you’re-” but she pushed him and everything fell and shattered.

She could have predicted how the night would unfold. How he’d stay behind to clean up while she went to cry in their room. How he came and cried to her, let her hit him and hit him, crumpled on the floor against the wall - that large, handsome man, crumpled and letting her hit him like that. How she eventually calmed and cried more quietly on the bed, and he pled for forgiveness, told her he’d never again, couldn’t believe he rationalized to do this to her and the family. How much he loved them. He pled to her quietly as they laid on their bed, crying to himself, praying to his god, until she fell asleep. She knew she’d already forgiven him, forgiven him months before. He said he’d never do it again, would never betray her trust like that to her again, 

but we’re back at the beginning, thunder rolling outside somewhere, their seventh and eighth children on the way. She’s long been dead in the eyes, and he’s crying, smelling like whisky. 

_

“Would you want to join us sometime?” It was the middle of the day at the end of an August, and the bar was empty. It was hot, unbearably so. Some high schoolers were standing outside the window in the shade.

She sort of grunted, “Fuck no. Makes me wanna barf.”

Robert shrugged, “Suit yourself.”

She took a drink from her umbrella-garnished cranberry juice. “And you’re gay, bitch.”

He threw back a shot glass. “Sure, but he likes us both, so it might be nice for-”

“He deserves shit. We’re nothing.”

He put the shot glass down and frowned. 

“You know he took the new neighbor to the yacht, right?”

Robert stilled. They looked at each other, and something passed over them, something shared. 

She shook her head and looked out the window at the kids. “Like I said, we’re nothing.”

They watched the kids outside for awhile. Two were doing tricks on skateboards around the mostly empty parking lot.

“We get his dick hard and he puts on that collar,” she said.

“You love him, though.”

“You do too.” 

They fell silent and listened to Britney, watched the late summer drawl unfolding outside - meaning not much was unfolding. The fans were turned on in the bar, but they were still sweating. She held her belly. He was kicking a lot and she had to pee. She thought Joseph would like the way her tank top clung to her breasts, which were constantly full and aching, or the sweating sheen and bulge of Robert’s arms in his wifebeater. 

They drank and shared space together, let the heat unfold them.


End file.
